


Cold Like Wonder

by Anonymous



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Huddling for Warmth Trope, Male Closeness, Other, References Alcoholism, Some violent imagery, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, bed sharing, mini!fill, mini!fill that turned into more, more gen than not, references episode four, some ptsd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-03 19:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1755079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cold boys (chapter added).  </p><p>1.  D'Artagnan and Aramis are shivering out of their skin.  Porthos and Athos are trying to fight the cold for them.  And d'Artagnan's never really faced this before.  Not like this.</p><p>2.  Athos, Porthos, and Aramis in the Jura Mountains with old memories, bad information, and dropping temperatures.</p><p>3.  Athos, Porthos, and Aramis make it to shelter after too long in a thunderstorm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mini!fill for this prompt on the kink-meme: 
> 
> Somewhat classic trope. Four cold boys in the woods (or a cabin, or anywhere really), one or two (or all) on the verge of hypothermia (I have no idea what they would have called it back then, if anything) having to tuck up and huddle close for warmth.
> 
> BroT4/OT4. Either way, I'm looking more for physical and emotional closeness with this one rather than erotic interaction, and to be as close as we can get to canon characterization in the process, if possible. :D

o0O0o  
  
D'Artagnan shivers from where he sits between Aramis's bent up knees and feels Aramis attempt to tug him closer into his chest in response. It doesn't work too well. Aramis's limbs are shaking nearly as badly as d'Artagnan's, his arms jerking and twitching around d'Artagnan's ribs. They feel strong and weak all at once, and d'Artagnan flutters at the terrible burden he's putting on his comrade, making him care for him and swaddle him while his own muscles barely work.   
  
Scrambling the heels of his soaked boots into the dirt in an effort to control his own body, d'Artagnan wars with his embarrassment and need. If it weren't for his stupidity and helplessness...  
  
"Lean, d'Artagnan," Aramis commands in a trembling voice. "Don't fight it. We'll..."  he breaks off in a shiver.  "We'll... have you... sorted... soon."  
  
"We'll have both of you sorted," speaks Athos, suddenly there, kneeling to d'Artagnan's left. "The fire is going and Porthos has the bedrolls set up, just as we did in--"  
  
"--in the Jura," chatters Aramis, finishing for him.  
  
"As we did in the Jura," agrees Athos, gripping his hands to the sides of d'Artagnan's cold neck and watching them both with stoic eyes. His fingers feel only slightly warmer than d'Artagnan's skin and there is a cold weariness in his expression that reveals the effect the descent in weather is having on all of them.  
  
"In the Jura?" d'Artagnan struggles to ask.  
  
"Two... miserable weeks," shudders Aramis.  
  
"Porthos," Athos calls without breaking eye-contact.  
  
"Almost ready," Porthos calls back. "Can you get them over here?"  
  
"Not alone. They're not going to be able to walk. If you come get d'Artagnan, I'll bring Aramis."  
  
D'Artagnan blinks, flushing at the idea of being carried, but the extra blood in his face does nothing to heat his skin. His limbs continue to twitch without his control, like detached opiliones legs. "Sorry... about... the... river," he trembles out, trying to keep his shivering jaw from biting off his tongue.  
  
"It was not your fault," says Athos, a near smile softening his eyes. "Besides, Aramis loves swimming and insists that cold water is good for the soul."  
  
There's a huff against d'Artagnan's back, the flutter of Aramis's ribs against his, but the expected sound of accompanying laughter doesn't come.   
  
"Aramis," says Athos seriously, arm snaking past d'Artagnan's gaze. "Breathe."  
  
D'Artagnan works his throat, trying to turn his head to see Aramis's face, but before he can, Porthos is there, lifting him from the ground and out of Aramis's grip without ceremony. "Come on," he says, as though he's giving d'Artagnan a choice. "Athos has him."  
  
Seconds later it seems, d'Artagnan is sitting dully by the fire, feeling the promised heat of it attempting to penetrate his skin while Porthos strips him with precision. The awareness of what's happening sends a new twinge of embarrassment up his spine. His ears prickle and his hands fumble. "You... don't... have to... I can... I can... myself," he slurs.  
  
"Not this time," Porthos rumbles gently, stilling his wrist and then pulling his damp shirt off over his head. "This may be new for you, d'Artagnan, but we've been in situations like this before. You'll freeze if we leave you to it, and there's no shame in leaning on us for this."  
  
Beyond Porthos's shoulder, Athos is holding a stripped Aramis against his chest in the same way Aramis had been holding d'Artagnan near the trees. They're in the lee of the simple lean-to Porthos had strung up with tent-cloth next to fire, and Athos is fumbling with a fold of blankets, working to drag them over himself and Aramis both.  
  
"Now you," Porthos orders, hooking his arms below d'Artagnan's.  
  
Within moments, he finds himself nearly buried in the pile of blankets and bedrolls, Porthos pressed up along his back, warm and solid, though now that d'Artaganan is a little more sensate he can tell Porthos too is shivering. Shivering, but not as much as Aramis in front of him who is beginning to shudder and wince, a look of vicious pain flashing over his face. D'Artagnan has no idea why but tears suddenly prick his own eyes in response, leaking down his cheeks.  
  
"Hey, it's all right," says Porthos, tucking him tightly against his chest, while at the same time reaching over him to press his hand to Aramis's sternum. "The coldness takes your body out of balance for a while - doesn't let you control everything - but it will come back. Just breathe. Keep breathing. You're okay."   
  
"Aramis," he stutters, hating the desperate and young sound in his own voice, feeling nearly the same desperate and childlike panic that had seized him when the icy water had first closed in over his head, dragging him under the broken bridge.  
  
"Sometimes it just hurts when the heat comes back into your body," explains Athos, carding a hand through Aramis's hair, and then mirroring Porthos by tucking close to Aramis's back and reaching over to press his palm to d'Artagnan's skin. "He's been through this before. He'll be fine soon enough. Right, Aramis?" he whispers.  
  
"Yes," Aramis gasps softly, opening his eyes and rolling his head to face d'Artagnan with an expression that's almost reassuring, pliant and accepting as Athos's hand rakes through his hair again. "Yes... I... promise."  
  
D'Artagnan feels his emotions wobble around inside him for a moment longer, stiffening his muscles and prickling at his need. He watches Athos glance over his head, exchanging some kind of silent conversation with Porthos - about him, he's sure. But when Porthos rolls slightly, shifting them both until d'Artagnan's shoulder and arm are pressed warmly along the curve of Aramis's ribs, he abandons his embarrassment and surrenders, taking comfort in the in-and-out expanse of Aramis's lungs, in the strong arms enfolding him. In the way Athos's palm rests smoothly over his sternum.   
  
He surrenders, and lets his breathing sink into the warmth and concern of his brothers. The chattering of his teeth and aching muscles surrendering with it.   
  
"D'Artagnan," Athos questions, peering at him over Aramis's shoulder. "Are you still with us?"  
  
"Yes," he says, eyes still oddly wet. "Yes. I'm here."  
  
o0O0o  
  
fin  
  
o0O0o  
  
Short and... sweet? Random? Disturbing? Short and... something.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the reviewers asked about Athos, Porthos, and Aramis in the Jura Mountains and the muse quickly spit out this, for whatever it's worth.

o0O0o

Already a week in the Jura, with temperatures dropping by day, and still no sign.  Any human life they’d expected to find seemed to have fled along with any vestiges of warmth, if it’d ever been there to begin with.

On the fifth day Athos had said they would turn back -- that it was clear the information they’d been given was wrong -- but at that point, the leaden wariness had already crept into Aramis’s bones.  As the world around them grew colder, his mind began to pervade the hollow edges in his vision that the cold had carved out, images from his memory saturating the gaps. 

The serenity and stillness they trekked through meant nothing. 

Through the trees, in the frost, he saw dead bodies on the ground.  Slaughtered Musketeers with cloaks over their heads.  Blood-stained ground and dead fires blackening the shadows without snow white tents.  Twice as he walked his horse silently through the mountain scape, he bent over to retrieve what he thought was Marsac’s discarded shoulder guard, fingers closing instead around peeled bark or cold stone.

And when night fell, he’d stopped sleeping, standing at the edge of their encampment, watching the tree line for imminent attack while a dull numbness wove itself into his skin and blood.

“Aramis,” called Athos as twilight fell on the seventh day, projecting his voice so that it reached where Aramis stood leaning against a tree and staring out into the cold and slipping light.  “We may be here for a few days.  If it storms tonight, we’ll need extra wood.”

Straightening from his lean and acknowledging the subtle order, Aramis nodded, or thought he did, and began to scan the ground for branches.  Instead, his eyes alit on Marsac’s pauldron, and he froze, trying to keep himself from reaching for it.

“Aramis,” repeated Athos.

Numbly, Aramis waved.  No words to go with it.  He had none.  They’d been fleeing him day by day.

“Aramis,” Athos said again, much closer this time.  Voice strange and tilting, bending with something like worry or fear.  “Aramis.”

Blinking his gaze up from the ground, he was greeted by Athos standing directly before him -- Athos, who was taking his glove off and pressing his palm to the skin on Aramis’s forehead, brow furrowed and eyes creased.

The sound of wood being dropped to the ground resounded behind him, and then Porthos was there too, peering at him over Athos’s shoulder. 

“He’s freezing,” mumbled Athos.

“I told you the cold was taking him.  He hasn’t been right all day.”

“Aramis?”  Athos slid a hand around to the back of his neck and shook him a little.  “It’s all right.  We’re going to get you warmed up.  Come with me.”

Aramis opened his mouth but no sound came out.  He felt detached, like he was watching his friends from a great distance.  Or like maybe this was a dream.  He’d had many, those days in Savoy, on his own after the slaughter.  Waking dreams.  Full of people and words that weren’t real.  Was this one of those?

Abruptly, Porthos added his own hands to the mix, twining his arm in through Aramis’s cloak and nearly lifting him as he and Athos directed him over to the fire and sat him down.  Once there, Athos’s hand descended once more to press against his face – at his temple, then down his jaw.  “Put the bedrolls together,” he said.  “We’ll all do better that way.”

“Didn’t do much good last night.”

“He didn’t sleep last night.  Stayed on watch the whole time.”

“Right,” said Porthos, the sound of moving blankets and shifting weapons accompanying his words, as though he was already in motion.  “He’s not soaked, but I think you should get him down to his skin.  We’ll put him between us—get him next to us and he may warm up faster that way.  Keep him from wandering too.”

Athos didn’t even hesitate.  Aramis felt hands shifting deftly to his cloak and coat and buckles, undoing them with precision.  It barely registered.  He stared past Athos’s shoulder, the shifting shadows tugging at his mind as the last of the evening light faded down into the trees.  Closing his eyes, he shivered, a tremble of life trying to break through the shroud that’d settled on him.

“Easy, Aramis.  Are you with us?” prompted Athos, tugging him close against his chest.  Aramis swayed his eyes open, only to realize he was down to his braies and being tucked between Athos’s legs.  On either side, Athos’s hands were attempting to rub warmth into his arms.

“Give him here,” said Porthos, and suddenly Aramis felt himself moving, being folded into Porthos’s broad chest -- a strong hand settling at the back of his head as he was tilted down into a bedroll, his brothers rolling close on either side.  Once there, he shivered again -- and felt warm legs blend in with his numb ones, warm arms circling his cold skin -- and this time he couldn’t stop.  The shivers continued, trembling up through his sternum and vibrating there, like needles jabbing into his heart, pain lancing through his joints all the way to his toes.

Feeling a sudden panic, he strained his head up, trying to stare over the rim of the blankets and into the dark.

Porthos’s hand settled in his hair, gentling his head back down.  

Aramis stiffened and twitched, his eyesight blurring, like he'd been stuck staring into a cold wind. 

“Settle down,” Porthos encouraged.  “Settle down.  You’re okay.  We just need to get you warm.”

Reflexively Aramis’s head rose up again.  It was harder to accomplish with the shivers racking his body, with the twitching and cramping that was increasing with each passing second, but he had to see. 

Porthos pushed against him a moment more, then stopped trying.  “What’s wrong?”

Aramis blinked, trying to shake the apparitions of soldiers approaching in the darkness from his head.  He curled his lips, trying to get his uncooperative skin to form shapes.  “Ambush,” he finally bit out.

As though one person, Athos and Porthos froze.  Then, with careful movements Athos tilted him, rolling him until they were face to face, warm hands bracing his ribs.  “Look at me, Aramis.  Look at me.  Focus on me.  Where are you?”

 _Savoy Savoy Savoy,_ his mind supplied, and even if it wasn’t exactly true, they were also too close to it for it to be an entirely invalid answer, even in their present time.

“Aramis?”

He took a deep breath, working his tongue around the words he knew he had to say instead.  “We…  We’re in the Jura.”

“And who are you with?”

“You,” he whispered.

“My name, Aramis.  Say my name.”

“Athos.  I’m with you, Athos.  And Porthos.”  He closed his eyes and tried to make it a mantra.  “Athos and Porthos.”

Athos’s arm tightened around him, hand pressing into the back of Aramis’s hair as he drew him close, bringing his cold nose into the warm dip below his collarbone.  “Say it again,” he ordered.

“Athos and Porthos,” he repeated, shivering around the names.  “Athos and Porthos.”

Behind him, Porthos’s own nose settled in close, just behind his ear.

“Again,” said Athos.

“The Jura, with Porthos and Athos,” Aramis mumbled, willing his brain to believe it so.

“No ambush,” prompted Porthos.

“No ambush,” Aramis repeated, though his heart thundered against it in denial. 

 _Athos and Porthos and no ambush._  

 _Athos and Porthos and no ambush._  

Grounding himself in their hold, he mumbled it again and again, looping it into his brain with the anchored reality of his two brothers beside him. 

“Again,” Athos continued to encourage.  “Again.”  Bracing him tighter with each pass.

And eventually, it worked, the mantra looping through his brain until his heart began to believe it. 

The reality looping through his brain until he finally fell asleep.

o0O0o

fin

o0O0o

This was kind of hasty.  It's rare when the muse lets me spit something out fast like this.  If there are typos and such, I apologize.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos, Porthos, and Aramis find shelter after too long in a thunderstorm. Shifting pov.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no intentions of doing anything more with this trope, but, well, then this happened. This one is pretty much pure shmoop and, just a reminder, though it remains pretty much on the gen side of things, it is a depiction of three men who are very comfortable with themselves and each other.

**o0O0o**

_Strike._

_Strike._

_Strike._

“Damn.”

“Aramis?”

Pivoting on his knees, Aramis scrubbed at the water dripping down over his eyes.  He blinked up at Athos, sighing his exhaustion.  “The spark won’t catch,” he explained, flexing against the cool stiffness in his fingers in preparation to try again.  The flint and firesteel slithered in his grip.  The char cloth poised below, mocking and belligerently unresponsive. 

“It’s no wonder,” mumbled Porthos, shaking his own wet head so that droplets of water danced off of it, peppering the smooth cabin walls.  Outside, a rumble of thunder tumbled across the sky, loud enough and near enough that Aramis felt the sensation of changing pressure between his ears.

Sniffing deeply, he ignored it.

_Strike.  Strike.  Strike._

_Strike-strike-strike._

“Here,” said Athos, kneeling to add an extra bundle of kindling to the mix.  A dry bundle he’d collected and wrapped in his pack as soon as he’d seen the dark clouds rolling towards them over the plain.  

“Always thinking ahead,” shivered Aramis, sitting back on his heels in front of the tiny hearth so that Athos could lean past him. “In case you were wondering, that’s what I love about you.”

“Because you do it so little?” Athos questioned dryly, glancing at Aramis from the corner of his eye.

“Ha,” Aramis huffed, breathing out his nose, but he smiled, letting his mouth widen despite the numbness of his lips and cheeks. His reward came as he hoped when Athos smiled back—a gentle twitch in the corner of his mouth that complemented the subtle warmth in his eyes.  “My dear Athos,” Aramis said, feigning offense.  “I thought you loved my plans?”

“He does,” interjected Porthos, slinging his soaked doublet with Athos’s over the cabin’s one rickety table before coming to kneel with them.  “Just not the suicidal, impulsive ones.”

“Touché,” said Aramis.

**o0O0o**

It was probably more exhaustion than cold that caused it, but the end result was the same.  Porthos couldn’t get his boots off.  Even with the fire finally crackling merrily below the continued rumblings of the sky—and the tiny cabin feeling less like an icehouse—his digits were slow to cooperate. His feet and fingers belonged to another body.  No longer subject to his commands.

“I’ve got them,” said Aramis, going to his knees in his shirtsleeves to tug at first one boot, then the other. His quick work exposing Porthos’s toes to the slow warmth trying to swath the room.  With odd precision, Aramis then set the boots upright against each other, and shivered.  His limbs racked in a tremble that visibly quaked through him as he started to rise.

Porthos set a hand to his shoulder, keeping him to his knees.  “Your turn,” he said. “Bend your head.”

Breathing out, Aramis complied, lowering his chin so that he knelt before Porthos in a bow, more humble than he would be even before their king.  Without preamble, Porthos tangled his grip into the saturated collar and pulled, yanking against the suction that wanted to keep the shirt to Aramis’s body, until finally it peeled loose.

When he finished grappling it over Aramis’s head, Aramis looked up again, but stayed where he was, a sudden docile expression on his face.  As if, all at once, the remainder of his strength had fled him.

Porthos exchanged a quick glance with Athos, then curled forward.  “Hey, now,” he said, touching Aramis’s shoulder.  “You still with me?”

Wanly, Aramis smiled, but even that brightness was dulled.  “Just tired.”

“Gentlemen,” said Athos, lifting a blanket from the pile in front of the fire and dropping it over Aramis’s shoulders. “To bed, I think, before the cold makes us forget why we’ve ceased to be warm.”  He twined his fingers temporarily into Aramis’s wild hair, rubbing the pad of his thumb across his temple.  “You, go,” he ordered.

Nodding obediently, Aramis crawled over to the pallet, pausing to unlace his braies and fumblingly shuck them before collapsing in front of the fire.  A confused twist graced his features once he was down, and he scrubbed his hand clumsily through his hair, frowning as though he was, as Athos had predicted, already forgetting how he’d come to be there.  Or was simply too exhausted for any semblance of continued stoicism.   

“Now you,” said Athos softly, nudging his hand up Porthos’s neck with an assessing look in his eyes.  His palm was cold with the just the barest hint of warmth.

“Now me,” repeated Porthos, suddenly feeling the heavy lag in his own muscles.

“Can you make it?”

Dimly, Porthos nodded, but accepted the help when Athos gripped his slick wrist and pulled his arm across his shoulders. “Fire’s going,” Athos mumbled as he moved them.   “We’ll be warm enough soon.”

“Warm,” agreed Porthos, using the last of his strength to shed his trousers before rolling in towards Aramis.  Athos was at his elbow mere moments later, tugging the mass of blankets over all of them.

A dedicated flurry of rain beat loudly against the roof, broken intermittently by the wild din of thunder. 

Wrapping an arm around Aramis’s shivering back, Porthos tugged him closer until Aramis’s forehead was pressed flush to his collarbone.  Shifting around, Athos rolled with him, nose pressing into Porthos's neck.

The sound and nearness of steady breathing lulled Porthos’s twitching muscles into a loosening sprawl.  The fire crackled.  “Warm,” he murmured again, sighing into Aramis’s drying hair.

“Yes,” mumbled Athos.  “Warm.  Now sleep.”

Smiling softly, Porthos closed his eyes.

**o0O0o**

_“Athos!”_

_“Athos!”_

_“Athos!”_

The echo was visceral.  Athos stared across the plain at Porthos and Aramis, downed from their horses and held helpless against the approaching enemy. He reached for his sword, ready to take to their defense but his fingers wouldn’t work.  He gasped as his grip ached and growled, refusing his commands.

Ahead, a faceless horseman was bearing down on his brothers, a pistol in one hand and a sword in the other.  Athos opened his mouth to shout a warning just as Aramis struggled up to his knees and took a musket ball to the chest.

 _“No!”_ Athos shouted, surprising himself with the hollow strength of his voice. _No_.

“Aramis!” yelled Porthos, dragging himself to Aramis’s side and then lifting his face to the sky.  “Athos!” he yelled.  “Athos, help me!”

 _Aramis_.

_God._

_Not Aramis._

“Athos!” Porthos yelled again. “Athos, please!”

Athos pushed forward, but his legs refused him also, cramping and tangling until he felt like he was trying to balance on water. He glanced down his body, trying to figure out what was wrong, then jerked his head up when he heard another cry of pain.

Porthos.

Porthos with a sword in his back, slumping over Aramis’s wasted body. 

_No._

_No no no._

_Porthos._

“Athos, please.”

“No.”

Finger pads dug into his shoulder, pressing in with the barest edge of blunt fingernails.   “Athos, wake up.  Athos?”  The hands shook him.  "Wake up."

_Aramis?_

“There you are,” breathed Aramis, kneeling in the pallet of blankets and frowning down at him, the flickering firelight playing across his dark eyes.  “Are you awake? Are you all right?”

Blinking, Athos rose up on his elbows, staring around the space numbly as reality and nightmare worked to separate themselves.

A dream.

It’d been a dream.

Shakily, he pinched the bridge of his nose, digging into his eye sockets.

“Athos, look at me.”  Removing his hand, Aramis pressed his palms to either side of his face and braced him, angling his head until their eyes met and held.  “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Athos said hoarsely, absently.  He darted his eyes down his friend’s body, but found no bullet wounds.  He breathed a slow exhale, then tried his answer again, circling a hand around Aramis’s wrist and squeezing reassuringly. “Yes.”

“Bad dream?”

“Yes,” he repeated, then squeezed the wrist tighter.  “Just a dream.”

Somewhere above them, thunder rumbled.  It sounded farther away than before, the steady drumming of rain on the roof becoming dulled and sporadic.

“You’re still cold,” Aramis determined, releasing his face and sliding his fingertips down his arm.  “I’ll put more wood on the fire now it isn't quite so damp.  He pivoted on his knees, but hesitated.  “All right?” he checked again.

This time Athos didn’t answer. Not directly.  He’d already answered _yes_ one too many times and Aramis wasn’t anymore likely to believe it now, even if he heard the word again. Clearing his throat, Athos shaped his voice into a steadier tone.  “Put the wood on the fire, then come lie down.  Please?”

Aramis lingered then sighed and turned away. As he did, Athos dropped his head back to the blankets, rolling his face to the side to find Porthos’s eyes were open and watching him.  “Bad one?” Porthos asked softly.

“Think I’m still just a bit cold,” Athos denied, releasing a shaky breath.  In reality, he needed a drink, he thought.

“I’m not,” said Porthos, sitting up and setting a hand to his bicep.  “Trade places with me? Put you closer to the fire?”

Athos sniffed, pausing.  But, just as Aramis seemed to chill too easily, Porthos was nearly always warm.  “All right,” he agreed, and they manhandled and negotiated until they’d switched places.

“Aramis, what are you doing?” Athos queried, finding him not by the fire but near the packs.

“Calvados,” said Aramis, handing him the bottle before folding himself back into the blankets.  Aramis was shivering again, but Athos accepted the bottle and smiled lightly.  He’d thought they were out of everything but the watered wine.

Under the layers, Aramis angled his face towards the flames while Athos pressed his free hand to Aramis's scalp, scrubbing softly. “Thinking ahead?” he muttered, echoing the evening’s earlier conversation.

“I strive ever to be more like you,” answered Aramis cheekily.

Porthos laughed.

The burn of the first swallow was sweet and fiery, the strength that settled in his gut nearly enough to drive out the last flashes of Aramis and Porthos’s lifeless corpses.  Eventually passing the bottle off to Porthos, he twined his fingers through the chain of his locket and closed his eyes as the alcohol settled him.

Someday he'll have to stop doing this, he thought.

Through another distant rumble of thunder, he felt Aramis and Porthos exchanging a look over his head before Porthos tugged him down again.  “You want to tell us what the dream was about, or is it the same one as you can’t talk about yet?” he asked.

Like the metal had abruptly grown hot, Athos shed the locket chain from his fingers and breathed, staring up at the ceiling.  “You were dead,” he murmured, dully and oddly direct. “Both of you.”

“I’ve had that dream,” rumbled Porthos low voice, tightening his warm hand over Athos’s ribs.  “But we’re not, you know.  We're here.  It was the cold talking.”  He was near enough that Athos could feel his heartbeat against his shoulder.   He let the sensation carry him for a long stretch, then nodded.

“Of course,” he said.  "Of course you are."

“Sleep then,” mumbled Aramis, tucking himself a little closer, bringing more of the blankets with him. “Do you think you can?”

Almost smiling, Athos rolled, working an arm across Aramis’s chest so that he could feel the expanse of his ribcage moving steadily beneath his muscles.  Simple, warm points of contact.  

“I can,” he answered.  “Go to sleep.”

**o0O0o**

   Fin

**o0O0o**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Though calvados was not the official name for apple brandy in France until after the French revolution, anecdotally, it seems the word had already been in common use for quite some time, even before the actual naming of the Calavados region. However, my use of it here is most assuredly still anachronistic.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Alone Are Ice and Night and Anything](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3732070) by [Mylos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mylos/pseuds/Mylos)




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